Lente, lente currite noctis equi. It only seems five minutes ago that I was devoting this column to the most important intellectual problem in the western canon — the oenophile’s equivalent of the Matterhorn — which red wine to drink with grouse. But the immortal gods are relentless; Phoebus Apollo has spurred on the seasons and, once again, a shy young grouse graces my plate. To eat one so soon after the Twelfth — is this not culinary paedophilia? Should I not be on a register?
Well, gentle reader, I overcame my inhibitions, especially as the succulent infant, compensating in sweetness for the grosser tastes of hanging, was accompanied by a Vosne-Romanée 2002, Premier Cru les Rouges, Dme Jean Grivot. In tribute to the wine, the conversation turned to the late Auberon Waugh. In his era, Burgundy could be a very different drink. Pinot noir is a great and subtle grape. It can also be furtive, elusive and teasing, as befits its caressing femininity. ‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Why not: thou art every bit as fickle.’
In Bron’s young day, Burgundy was equally unpredictable. Many vignerons, unwilling to tolerate feminism in their vineyards, summoned reinforcements. If the pinot noir was complaining of a headache, throw in other local grapes with plenty of body, or even some Algerian plonk. The results varied. Thirty years ago, some thoroughly inadequate wines appeared under serious Burgundian colours. But there were also black, resonant, deep-lain Burgundies, often brought to market by the house of Avery in Bristol, which fully justified the vignerons’ legerdemain. The EU has put a stop to all that, which is a pity. Clearly, if a wine claims to be made from pinot noir harvested at the relevant Burgundian domaines, that should be an honest statement.
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